


Wicked Hearts

by Mythalenaste



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Briala - Freeform, DO IT FOR THE PROMPT, F/M, I also mentioned/referenced Felassan, Solavellan, jealous!Solas, kill me, the whole shebang really, which is a little like do it for the vine I guess, which was a bit odd to write honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 06:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3718708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mythalenaste/pseuds/Mythalenaste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A particularly tricky Lavellan enjoys herself too much at Halamshiral...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wicked Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone loves Orlesian balls and ugly pantsuits and wolf masks, right? Also Briala. everybody loves Briala. Enjoy!

_“One must be cunning and wicked in this world.”_    
 **― Leo Tolstoy,**   _War and Peace_

* * *

 

Lycanae laughed softly at the other elven woman’s expression, guiding her into an easy spin. Solas watched them from a discreet alcove beside one of the large windows, as much to keep an eye on his vhenan as to take up a space that might have otherwise been occupied by a spy or scheming noble. He sipped his fifth flute of champagne and relished the sweet liquid on his tongue and the relaxed warmth and ease it endowed him with. From his vantage point, Briala seemed a bit perturbed by the Inquisitor’s seeming lack of guile. It was an act, of course. His vhenan had acquitted herself admirably in the Orlesian Game, gaining the approval of the entire court and acting with just enough distant remorse over Celene’s death as to seem entirely innocent of any foreknowledge of what would take place. He was not surprised, Lavellan was good at games of all kinds…

“Surely this will not do your court standing any favours, Inquisitor.” Briala’s voice was…intrigued. Solas listened, amused by the exchange. It was rare that he got to watch Lavellan match wits with those around her, she was usually many, many steps ahead of whomever she was speaking to. He confessed himself curious, trying to puzzle out a possible political motive for asking the elven Ambassador to dance.

“Two beautiful women dancing on a balcony? Hardly.” Lavellan took Briala’s waist in a way that was perhaps a touch more intimate than necessary, Solas noted. She had learned to dance quickly and gracefully under his tutelage(the surprise she had expressed that he knew how to dance had been easily parried with the old excuse of ‘learning such things in the Fade’. He yearned to tell her of the expansive ballrooms of Arlathan…) and Josephine’s guidance about propriety and human customs.

“Flattery, Inquisitor? You do not have to toy with me…you have already won my allegiance.” Briala’s voice coloured with amusement and her winsome lips curved into a smile beneath her mask. Solas made a soft sound into his flute of champagne. The Ambassador would have better luck closing a rift by giving it a stern talking to than she would attempting to distract Lavellan from her games.

“Toy with you? Whatever gave you that idea, Ambassador?” Lavellan stepped quickly and liquidly, guiding her partner with a subtle beauty to all of her movements. She was flourishing a little, even. Hmm. “Besides, stating simple truths is hardly flattery.”

“You are…not like the other Dalish I have met.”

“I know. I don’t smell of halla-” Briala’s laughter was a pretty sound and Solas wanted to enjoy it but he couldn’t seem to tamp down a niggling irritation that was eating at him. It took him a moment to identify the emotion and when he did, part of him balked at the absurdity. Jealousy? That was ridiculous…he couldn’t be jealous of some…some ex-mistress of an Empress over a little light flirtation. And yet… “-and I believe that elves are elves, no matter where they’re from. But I do have an uncommon fondness for bows, I’m afraid. Unavoidable, that.”

“That opinion must make you unpopular amongst your People, lethallan.” Solas bristled at the familiarity, what exactly was Lavellan doing? And what was Briala doing? This was starting to seem less and less like a political gambit and more and more like two da’len having a girlish tryst. He downed a swallow of his champagne rather more quickly than he intended, forgetting to savour it.

“What? The fondness for bows?”

“You are impossible…and you’re avoiding the question.”

“Was one asked? I thought you were simply accusing all Dalish of narrow mindedness.” Solas felt a slight tinge of relief at that, taking a sip and relaxing somewhat. There was the fierce wit and personal pride that he had come to admire in his Inquisitor. She was his Inquisitor, too. There was no one she trusted more, no one whom she let see more of her true self than him. “You’re not wrong, though. On both counts. If anyone knows what vicious bastards the Dalish can be, it’s one of the Dalish. Terrible shame. But, that’s why lovely women like you and I have to change things. Show our people the way. Mythal give us strength…”

“You…remind me of someone, Inquisitor.”

“Oh? Was this someone devilishly good-looking with a superb sense of humour and discerning taste?” Solas swallowed his groan before it could surface, shaking his head. She was a proud thing, his heart.

“He seemed to think so, yes. He was also a…an ‘uncommon’ Dalish, I believe.” Hmm, he’d let this go on long enough. He’d promised her a dance and he would have one before the night was through. Here, at Halamshiral.

“We’re a rare breed-Oh! Solas…” The look of surprise paired with a modicum of guilt was oddly gratifying as it flickered across his vhenan’s face beneath her half-mask. A white wolf with silver filigree and moonstone inset. He had balked at her temerity to wear such a thing but her reasoning had been sound, or at least, as sound as it always was:

_“The Orlesians act like they invented trickery. Let me show them what the face of true guile looks like.”_

_“With a mask?! Of Fen’Harel? They will not understand it’s significance and even if they know something of it, it will be interpreted as an aggressive mock of their custom!”_

_“The Inquisition put me, a Dalish elf with heathen gods, in a hideous pantsuit and are parading me around as the Herald of Andraste and you think the mask will be what makes them take offense?”_

_“I think you should be wary. If you do not fear the Orlesian’s rebuke, then perhaps concern yourself with the opinion of Fen’Harel himself. What if the trickster god should take insult at you so brazenly using his image to cow lesser beings?”_  She’d stared at him aghast for a moment, her beautiful lips curving into a wicked smile as eyes that glittered with the colour of the rifts, of  _his_ magic, had challenged him from behind the elegant mask.

_“You don’t believe in the elven gods, Solas. Besides, if you think the Trickster would scold me for my irreverence, you clearly don’t know much about him, ma vhenan.”_

Of all the times he had been tempted to tell her the truth, that had been one of the worst. It had been two hours of fierce brooding( ‘Who spit in your canapes, Chuckles?’) before he had been sullenly forced to admit, even if only to himself, that a younger him would have found the young da’len’s gesture amusing…and sought more amusement with it’s perpetrator. But he couldn’t afford to think that way, a younger him would have done and thought many repulsive things. Like using a stonefist spell to knock Briala off the balcony on pure principal.

“I’ll…well, my people will be in touch, Inquisitor. Thank you for the dance. It has been…a pleasure.” The Ambassador swept past him with a businesslike nod, recovering herself quickly. Almost as quickly as Lavellan, in fact.

She leaned back against the railing with an easy grace, her long legs crossing at the ankle. She was still wearing her armor, a dalish scout’s raiment, a brilliant green tunic with aurum mail that endowed her with a summery beauty. Inappropriate for a place called the Winter Palace, but what had Lavellan done tonight that was not a smack in the face to tradition? And better yet, she had gotten away with it…most of it.

“I’m not surprised to find you here. Though the Ambassador’s presence-” Her laugh, loud and brilliant in the cool evening air interrupted his carefully constructed speech. She beamed at him, baring her teeth in a delighted grin.

“Solas…you’re not jealous? Are you?” There was too much sweetness, too much self-satisfied smugness, in his vhenan’s voice.  _Ah. A trap, set and baited._

“…dancing with Briala was not intended as a political gambit.” The dancing, the flirtation…she had known he stood watch the entire time. Lavellan’s smile sweetened and she stepped up to him, smooth and graceful as she rested her hands on his shoulders.

“Oh, it was a gambit. But it had nothing to do with Orlesian politics.” He cupped her jaw and slanted his mouth against her’s, bumping his nose on the infernal wolf mask as he did so. Despite the clumsiness of his swift gesture, her breathless gasp was a satisfying reward as he kissed her without reservation. He buried his fingers in her hair, fumbling at the ribbon that held her mask in place, breath hitching as her tongue swept over his bottom lip. He clutched her to him, pressing her back against the balcony railing and slipping the mask off to drop it over the edge. Quick even in distraction, she snatched it back from the abyss with preternatural quickness, her other arm wrapping around his neck to steady herself. Her laughter and his growl were muffled against one another’s lips. She leaned back to smile at him, moonlight gleaming in her eyes and off her pale skin. The wolf mask dangled from it’s silver ribbon, spinning in the blue evening light as she held it by this most tenuous of grips.

“You should get rid of that deplorable thing.” He grumbled, holding her tightly even as she inched a little further out into space to avoid his reach. Should any of the nosier nobility decide to visit the balcony, rumours the Inquisitor was performing acrobatic indecencies with her elven serving man would be rampant from Halamshiral to Montisimmarde before sun up.

“Jealous of the Dread Wolf, ma lath?”

“Never.” He hissed, pulling her back from the edge swiftly and dipping her so quickly she yelped, throwing both arms around his neck in an effort to halt her downward momentum. The mask spun away across the marble, the metal clanging against stone with a bell-like tone. She glowered at him and he laughed, pulling her up to a standing position and sweeping into a courtly bow. “Now, vhenan. If you’re quite finished with  _your_ games, I would enjoy dancing before the band stops playing.”

Lycanae seemed to consider for a moment before finally relenting, taking his hand in one of her’s and letting him pull her into the steps of a simple, sweeping waltz. As he steered her across the balcony, he watched a slender elven shadow slip away from one of the windows. He smiled…Briala would keep the Inquisitor’s confidence. She would remember Lavellan as a charming woman despite her Dalish heritage, a talented liar and an accomplished, if new, player of the Grand Game. Most importantly, Briala had seen for herself that Lavellan’s love of elves with unmarked faces was more than mere talk.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback? <3 :D


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